


Honos et Virtus

by JK Ashavah (ashavah)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Character Study, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashavah/pseuds/JK%20Ashavah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Wraith on the edge of starvation normally sees a human as nothing more than food. But when the Wraith is Todd and the human in Sheppard, things are far from normal. Todd POV of "Common Ground".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honos et Virtus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [debirlfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/debirlfan/gifts).



> Many thanks to geotangle and alemara for their comments, support, and suggestions. And thank you a thousand times over to debirlfan for giving me such a wonderful prompt!
> 
> The title means, approximately, "Honour and Strength" in Latin, though there is no single English word that adequately captures the essence of the word "virtus", which is the quintessential essence of a Roman military leader, made of up of bravery, strength, virtue, manliness, and worth. It's a trait that Sheppard has in abundance.
> 
> Most of the dialogue in this fic is direct from the episode "Common Ground".

Hunger.

Hunger, every day and every night, every moment of existence. That is what his life has become. A perpetual existence on the edge of starvation has left nothing else, stripped dignity and meaning away until it is everything. 

His past, his present, both are gone, and his future is barely worthy of the word, stretching forward into the dim certainty of deprivation lasting until he is near death and is allowed to feed, a little at a time, on some new human. Even then, his sustenance will be rationed, just one life, a trickle of years as ephemeral as smoke in the wind that will feel like it's gone as soon as it's tasted.

The Wraith always hunger. It is their existence, for hundreds of years at a time, sleeping until the galaxy is ripe for harvest once more, or scrounging what they can from feeding grounds without sucking their food supply dry. There is always hunger, even in the times of plenty when the Wraith are once more unleashed to reap the rewards of their patient cultivation of their human flock. The cleverest of the Wraith know that even then, taking all they could wish in one place will leave no future for that feeding ground. If humanity is not allowed to exist, even during a culling, there will be no future for either human or Wraith.

There is always hunger, but it is not always all. Once, in the time when days still had meaning, there was more to his existence than this. Life was more than gaps of interminable time to pass, spent loathing his captors and longing for the next feeding. Life was measured by more than the next time a human could be found. That was not his purpose. Once, there was kinship. There were Hives. There were his fellows around him, his people to lead, his Queen to serve. Those were hard times, the times of the hibernation, and his Hives needed a leader to keep them together and strong until the rest of the Wraith awoke.

That was his life, and that was his place, but all of it was so long ago that some days it's hard to recall. This captivity should be a speck in a knowledge and memory that runs to the time of the great war for the galaxy. But as time has passed and belief in his future has faded, so too have those memories. It is as though this has become all he is.

At first, he tried to hold on to the thought of that past, to know that when he fought his way out and escaped, his place would be there for him to reclaim. He doesn't recall when that thought stopped. It must have been years ago, though time matters so little here it is hard to know. When there is no intrusion from the world outside to mark its passage, time slips by at an indeterminate pace. Day and night are invisible here and they blur together, punctuated too infrequently by the arrival of a new prisoner who heralds a too-brief reprieve from the hunger.

Eventually, though, time and starvation overcame his need to return to his Hive. When the guards came in to prod him and chain him and goad him, he stopped looking for the opportunity to fight, to break out of the chains they bind him in, take their strength and drink it, make it his own and forge his escape. It happened when he was no longer strong enough to fight, even if the chance were there.

That was years ago.

All of that is past. Now, there is just the hunger, and the knowledge that all around, there is food, food that he cannot take. He can hear it, smell it, knows that the humans are there. They come and they go, they vanish, sometimes, never to return, though whatever satisfaction that small measure of payback may provide is distant, dulled by the need that clouds everything else to his senses. 

They are disdainfully predictable, these humans. They think that they are in control, that they own him. They have taken over this base of theirs, but they do not own it. They may believe that they rule this dank world of theirs, but that is only so much posturing, and he can see it whenever they pass his cell. He knows the fear in their eyes.

They cannot face him without chains and weapons, but even that knowledge means little now. 

He bothers little with the sound of a new human prisoner being dragged into the cell next to his, listens with disinterest to the mutterings of the guards. His new neighbor is unpopular with their captors, it seems. That is the case for most of them, but there is something in the guards' voices that is different.

Not that it matters. This will end just as it always does; Kolya, the leader of this facility, will interrogate his prisoner, will call in the Wraith in the cells to assist with the process, and the human will prove just as feeble and weak-minded as the others who have passed through here. He will feed, and he will still be weak, still be trapped, and nothing will have changed except the end of one more human life.

He long ago gave up trying to remember what it is like to savor true strength and courage in a human. The qualities exist, of course. He tasted them, in that life before this. They make the triumph of feeding all the sweeter, because it brings with it a victory over that human spirit, but that is a luxury that is not to be found here.

Kolya's enemies are a weaker breed.

There will, at least, be a feeding. And it is a change, however brief, to the endless monotony. He listens, seated against the wall of his cell, to the shouting from the next cell, shouting of accusations against Kolya, claims that Kolya owed him better than this. It is the sort of thing the Wraith has heard in the past. These corridors have rung with anger and frustration, even with pleas, before. But Kolya cares little for concepts of honor, and the man does himself little good, simply wasting his strength as he rattles the bars with a slamming sound like he'd thrown his weight against them.

That will do nothing. He'd tried it himself, some time long ago when there was still something like hope that he could escape from here and return to his people.

"You're wasting your breath."

His voice croaks through dryness and long disuse. It must have been many days since he has spoken, so long that his own voice sounds distant, unfamiliar, one more thing taken from him by this place along with his people and his position.

It is probably not worth his own breath speaking to the man, but he does it regardless. He is cut off from his world and the telepathic connection to the other Wraith is faint at best. There can be no replacing the role of the Hive in his life, or of his fellows, and another in a collection of Kolya's petty enemies is unlikely to offer any response worth hearing.

Still, he will speak to even a human after such isolation for so long.

This one has a spirit that most of them don't. It has been long days since he last heard defiance shouted into these corridors.

There is a pause, a considering silence, before the man speaks.

"I didn't know I had company down here."

"There is no escape." Once, it was all he considered, here, but that is gone, now. If there was a way, he would have found it, in those days when escape still mattered.

The back of his cell is in shadows, but there is a patch of light, striped by bars, where a window shows through to the next cell.

"Yeah, well, prisons are like that. Never stopped me before."

Once, that would have given him some satisfaction. Once, he himself thought that way. That was many years ago now, and he no longer believes it possible.

He does not know whether he gave up trying or gave up believing trying was worth something first, but in the end, the result is the same.

"How long you been down here?" the man asks, craning his head in an attempt to see into the dark patch where the Wraith is sitting.

"Many years."

It no longer matters how many, and he no longer knows. Cut off from light and dark, there is no way to mark time except the change of the guard, and that seems so infrequent it is impossible to track. He shifts, the chains that bind his feeding hand ringing against each other, a constant reminder that he does not need of the loss of his freedom.

"What did you do to get here?" the man asks, apparently just making conversation for its own sake.

He clearly does not know the nature of his fellow prisoner.

"I merely allowed myself to be captured alive."

That is all that he has done, less than any of the others who have come here. The man claims that is all he has done, but that is clearly not the case, when he was shouting earlier about sparing the dictatorial Kolya's life. There is some ongoing human squabble between them, clearly.

There was nothing so personal when the Wraith was taken.

His only crime was to do what he needs to survive.

The man turns away, silhouette of his head disappearing from the window, and paces back across his cell.

"Look, I've got people looking for me." A claim the Wraith has heard before, though rarely offered to him. Many prisoners have claimed that people will come to find them. And none ever have.

"When they find me, maybe we can both, uh …"

It has been many days, months, even, since a smile stretched his lips, but one does now, as he imagines what the man's response would be if he knew to whom he has made that offer. Not that there is anything to be pleased about, but there is something almost like a dry amusement to be found in the thought.

Humans think themselves far more generous than they truly are, but that generosity is for their own kind.

There is no opportunity for his companion to reveal the limit of his generous instincts at that moment, for that is when the guards arrive, three of them, and demand he goes with them. 

The Wraith can only hear what happens. But there is a bout of sarcasm, followed by a shot, and a shout. It's not the shout of someone who's been hurt, but of annoyance, as though this were all some game the man is losing.

It's a curious sort of defiance, and he can recognize that even without watching. There is a tone of voice, a stubbornness that he vaguely remembers from many years ago, when there were times he was the captor and the resistance was shown to him.

Once, he used to respect it, in some way.

More surprising than that, though, is how it manifests. It sounds, at first, as though the man will go without any further protest once he has been shot at, but then there is the sound of a blow falling, a scuffle, and a shout of pain, this time, as the man is stunned.

He's dragged away, unconscious and unresisting. This time the Wraith watches the guards from his corner. He sees only a glimpse of a figure in dark clothes, a heavy weight slung between two of their captors.

It's more resistance than he's seen in years.

When he's once more alone, he doesn't move. There is little point. His fellow prisoner has gone, dragged into the distance, and Kolya will take his time with his interrogation, as he always does.

Or so he thinks. But it cannot be more than minutes before the guards are back, standing this time in front of his cell, opening his door, and keeping their cautious distance as they always do.

Even chained and defeated, his captors are frightened of him, and he meets the wavering gazes with his eyes steady, unblinking.

He has little left, but he does have pride.

Once, he would have made some move towards them, lunged as if to make an attack, but any impulse for that sort of rebellion was long ago worn out of him. He lets them take his arms, lets them pull him along the passages that are now the extent of his world.

There are voices from ahead of him, on the other side of the doors. One is the voice familiar to him as Kolya's, and a distant murmur of a voice he has not heard before. There is apparently some signal the guards are waiting for; Kolya's voice is raised, and the doors open.

The man he'd been speaking with is gagged, tied to a chair, and the closest thing left to excitement stirs, because there will be, if only for moments, something to ease the burning ache within from starvation to mere hunger.

There will be feeding.

Kolya has a communications device set up, and as the Wraith enters, a woman's voice protests, and a man's shouts, demanding that the man -- Sheppard, apparently, is his name -- deserves better, but he cares not.

To him, this is no more than food.

****

As always when Kolya begins to use the Wraith against his prisoners, he is pulled away too quickly, forced off his prey by a shock from the guards. The pain makes him recoil, and then it is simple enough for them to chain his hand again, to force him back into his cell and to drag the man -- Sheppard -- back to his.

"They called you 'Sheppard'."

Sheppard's energy is gone now, his restless pacing stopped, to judge by the quiet coming from his cell. His voice sounds feeble as he agrees that yes, that is his name.

Sheppard.

He does not remember the names of others who have passed through that cell beside him. Few of them had much to distinguish them. Few of them had any strength in their life force, but there was something in the taste he had of Sheppard, an echo of that defiance he'd shown to Kolya's guards.

Not that it matters.

Now is the beginning of the decline for Sheppard. His restlessness, his attempts to fight, to rattle the bars into letting him out, have stopped.

"You're in pain."

And there, in response, is the bitterness, bitterness aimed against the Wraith for simply doing what they must to survive. That is the way of humans. They value themselves so highly that anything attacking them must inherently be evil. They would have the Wraith starve rather than allow them to feed, though they themselves farm and eat animals. Do the humans think there is no pain for the animal they hunt and eat? Or do they simply lack the insight to see that is little different to the Wraith?

"I don't know how many years the darned thing took off my life," Sheppard says, his voice tight with the pain, "but I'll tell you this: if Kolya's men hadn't have pulled that damned thing off, I'd be dust in a flak jacket."

"Do you blame the Wraith, or the master?"

"I'm gonna go with both."

There is little surprise there. It is as the answer would be with any human. Because the Wraith feeds, the Wraith is to blame, even if the Wraith would otherwise starve.

"There is a difference." It is strange to hear the tone in his own voice, to hear it turn wistful, his thoughts turning uninvited back to a time so long ago when starvation was not his lot. "The Wraith must feed in order to live. For Wraith, hunger burns like fire."

To feed is a necessity for the Wraith. Its purpose is not to torture and torment humans. Some use it that way, yes, but for most Wraith in most circumstances, to feed is just that. 

He stands, chains clinking against each other as he moves closer to the window. He can see Sheppard in the distance, can see Sheppard's posture change, see him stand and take cautious, labored steps across the cell to see better.

"Tell me, Sheppard, if you found yourself burning alive, would you settle for just one drop of water ... or would you take more?"

The realization has struck his companion, and when he asks where his name was heard, he does not need the answer. 

Not really, for now they can see each other. Now, he looks into the Wraith's eyes, and the Wraith looks into his, and he sees the fear pass through them.

Just as he expected.

Perhaps Sheppard will feel betrayed or misled by their conversation. But the assumptions that were made were Sheppard's, and Sheppard's only. 

This will be the end of his generosity, the end of his curiosity, the end of his desire to make conversation for the sake of conversation. That is there in the fear in his eyes, in the way that Sheppard backs away from the window, reeling, and starts to pace. 

The anger at losing what he clearly thought was a human ally has given him new strength, but that strength will be wasted if he uses it in pacing. Wasting his strength will be of no benefit to either of them.

When he points that out to the man, Sheppard stops, fuming, and glares. 

"I don't think so."

This is not the fault of the Wraith. He did not lie. And he did not choose to be kept and starved in here, not to be fed, a bit at a time, on humans to whom the process is a long agony.

Feeding causes pain, yes, but if he had his will, he would take what he needs and end it, not draw it out as he knows Kolya will. As Sheppard now sees and fears.

"You realise he is torturing both of us?" 

Sheppard gives him a disdainful look.

"Oh, yeah? What'd he do to you?"

"He stopped me."

Sheppard scoffs, dismissive, rejecting the idea that it could be any sort of torture to know what the Wraith has known for so long, this starvation on the edge of life, starvation so strong that taking all the years Sheppard has to give would still leave him empty.

"Have you ever known starvation, Sheppard? The few years I took from you are barely enough to keep me alive. The strength I gained from you is already fading."

"I don't really give a damn." Sheppard's breath heaves.

There is no point in trying to speak with humans. What wonder is it that so few Wraith bother? They are self-righteous, arrogant, believing that anything outside their own view of their own worth in the world is invalid. 

"You pace in your cell, cursing that I took years from you. I stand here cursing that I was not allowed them _all_." Sheppard spins, glaring. "Each in our own way, we suffer."

There were moments, earlier, when it seemed that Sheppard may offer some sort of conversation. But he clearly wishes it no longer, as prejudiced as he is against the very existence of the Wraith.

Now, he strides across the cell, fear forgotten in his anger, reaching for the bars and slamming against them, shouting, all civility gone as he demands his companion shut up. The Wraith's hand shoots forward, half-instinctive in the face of such human defiance.

It is futile, of course, and both of them realize it. Sheppard looks, disgusted, at the hand reached out between the bar, but it is no threat. Not enclosed in this heavy metal sleeve.

"These are your last hours, Sheppard. If you wish to spend them in silence, then so be it."

This is the point where most humans would give up. Most would admit the hopelessness of their situation.

Sheppard does not, and it is the first real surprise he has offered.

He has a life, he claims, and he will return to it. He sounds like a man who truly believes what he is saying. Men have said, before, that they will be rescued, and they never have. Nobody has ever found and raided this base, and all of them have died.

Sheppard, though, insists that he will be rescued.

And the next time he is fed upon, Sheppard still sits proud in his chair. There is a negotiation taking place for Sheppard's life, and the Wraith watches his prey as Kolya speaks with a woman called Weir who is, presumably, one of the friends Sheppard insists will save him.

It usually takes little time for a human to give in to Kolya's demands, but Sheppard does not. Weir refuses Kolya's offered bargain, but Sheppard shows no sign of dejection. He even nods, affirming her choice though it means more pain for him.

He looks relieved.

Sheppard has belief in his people, though he does not wish them to trade for his life. There is honor in that position, and honor, too, in the fact that Sheppard meets the Wraith's eyes, his gaze uneasy, but unflinching.

Perhaps the man's strength is more enduring than it seemed.

****

This time, Sheppard barely manages to drag himself across to the wall that adjoins the Wraith's cell. His hair has turned from brown to near grey, his face has wrinkled, but still the strength he has given is not enough.

But now, it is not Sheppard who is curious, but the Wraith. Now, he finds that he wishes to know more of the nature of this man. He is unlike any other human that has passed through this place. He did not cry out in pain. He did not flinch. He did not beg.

Once, the Wraith would have welcomed an adversary of Sheppard's sort. There is a challenge to be found in defiance. It is not simply the added satisfaction in the nourishment: there is a certain nobility to be found in the engagement with an enemy who is not simple to defeat. Usually, humans do not provide such an opportunity. Often, it is only to be found in the challenge of a struggle between Hives, but here is defiance in a human.

Now, he is reduced to a curiosity. But one worth exploring.

"Where are your friends?"

"They'll be here."

"You still believe that."

It is hard to see how anyone could, but Sheppard is determined that he will be rescued.

It cannot happen. This place is hidden. It is defended, and its passages are narrow, winding, easy to protect and difficult to conquer. Nobody has attacked it in the years he has been here, and even if they could, they would gain nothing but death.

That is why his Hives have not come for him. The other Wraith of one's Hive are brethren, and they will fight to defend that community, and their people. If the Wraith knew what had happened, that would be a mark against Kolya and his people.

The Wraith feel wrongs against their kind, and they are not kind in punishing them. That is a different approach to the one Sheppard seems to expect from his kind.

A Wraith Hive, if it knew the location, could likely take this place to save its fellow, but it has not. That is not how a Hive functions.

A Hive could defeat Kolya, but even if the Wraith, or Sheppard's friends, were to attack, Kolya would kill his prisoners rather than let them escape. That is his nature, weak and controlling, with none of the honor that Sheppard seems to value so much.

Nobody has ever left here, and nobody will. Not the Wraith, and not Sheppard.

"How well do you know the layout of this place?"

"Well enough to know what they would be up against," the Wraith replies, dismissive. Even if Sheppard's friends were to meet the standard he holds them to and try to save him, they would have to find this place first.

It is isolated. That much is clear from the distance of the Wraith minds he can hear. No, there will be no rescue.

Sheppard does not speak again, at first, but lies where he had collapsed against the wall for a moment, before he slowly begins to push himself up. He reaches for the wall and, with great effort, pulls himself up to look through the window and into the Wraith's eyes.

"What about us?" he says, his breath heaving with effort. "Do you know enough about this place to get us out?"

It takes a moment to understand just what Sheppard is proposing, and he stares at the man, eyes wary.

"You and me?"

It sounds laughable. What Wraith would work with a human who was not a worshipper? What human would trust a Wraith? 

This man is capable of more surprises than had seemed possible. 

"What, are they gonna let you go after I'm dead?"

It takes little thought to find the answer.

"No."

They are never going to let him go. And they are never going to let Sheppard go. There will be no escape, not for either of them. He will remain an unwilling tool of torture, and Sheppard will die. That future is plain to him.

And yet … there is something in him that wants Sheppard's suggestion to be feasible. Sheppard tells him they have a common goal, and that is true. They are imprisoned. They wish to survive this. Sheppard will not, and the Wraith …

Sheppard suggests that life here is bad, dismisses it as though a life in captivity was not a life at all.

Perhaps there is something in that, but it is a strange thought, one he has not allowed himself in so long it is hard to remember.

"There is no escape."

He wishes it were not so.

****

They had waited in silence from that moment until the guards came for them again. Sheppard moves slowly, and he pauses in the door of his cell and looks over, gaze thoughtful, assessing, but there is not time to see what he was thinking before a guard hits him, knocking him out.

But the Wraith thinks that now, he knows enough of Sheppard to interpret that moment.

Help or no help, he wants to escape. He would rather die in the attempt to leave this place than remain subject to Kolya. Once, the Wraith would have felt the same.

His talk of breaking out had seemed futile, and it had been dismissed as such. But Sheppard is a man of conviction. His people have honor, it seems, and so does he. Doctor Weir, though it means Sheppard's death, does not give in, and Sheppard does not shy from that fate.

"Take your fill."

That order from Kolya has been all that kept him alive through captivity. His hunger will turn back to starvation soon enough, but he can ward it off, for now, by taking Sheppard's strength, all of it. He will relish wringing it from his body.

Not, like Kolya, because of any animosity towards Sheppard. Simply because he must feed.

When he begins to feed, he means to do take everything there is, but still Sheppard does not cry out, still Sheppard shows pride, still he does not protest. Still his life force is full of vigor, and now he tastes it for more than a few moments, it is near intoxicating.

And he cannot finish the man. 

It takes all he has to pull himself away, to stop himself from gorging until Sheppard is dead.

No man has ever escaped from this prison, but if any could, it would be Sheppard. Sheppard, who still has such power in his spirit, even now, on the edge of death.

Sheppard, who offered him the hope he never thought to have, and deserves more than this. He does not know what it is that makes him decide to give Sheppard his chance. But it will be done. 

He pulls away, looking up at Kolya, and tells him that Sheppard is near death.

Kolya will take one more chance to mock Doctor Weir, to try to get the hostage he wants from her. And the Wraith and Sheppard will use that against him.

****

It takes a long time for Sheppard to awaken. Whatever his personal fortitude, he has been weakened physically, and he can barely push himself up to sit. The Wraith is watching, eyes gleaming from behind the bars on the window between their cells.

"You know," Sheppard complains, "I could have sworn I was going to wake up dead today."

He still jokes, even after so much.

"You are strong." The Wraith is waiting, considering as he studies his former prey, but he has not changed his mind. "Stronger than any human I have ever fed upon."

His death would have given satisfaction, but it would not have been good.

"You stopped yourself."

"Yes."

Sheppard's tone is questioning, bordering on disbelieving.

"Why?" he asks, trying to look up.

"Because the longer I feed, the weaker you become. And we will need what strength you have left to escape."

Sheppard's voice cracks, and he gives a feeble little nod.

" _Now_ he wants to escape."

"I did not know that you would carry through with your promises," he says. "It would not be the first time a human has deceived a Wraith." And it would be … unusual for a human and a Wraith to work together in this way.

"Right. Because that's what this is about." The Wraith is peering down through the bars, and he sees Sheppard shift against his wall, straightening a little, pushing up as if to stand.

"Save your strength. We will need to fight the guards."

"Yeah," Sheppard says, letting out a heavy breath. "Because that went so well before."

The Wraith's eyes shine, and his lips curl back into an unpleasant smile.

"Before, you did not have me."

It does not take much coordination. They will take the guards. They never come in any large number, and the two of them can fight them off. They are complacent, and they will not expect a broken Wraith and a weakened man to attack. Neither of them alone could take all of the guards at once, as Sheppard proved earlier. But together, they will have a chance.

The guards will not expect a Wraith and a human to look past their differences to see what they share.

****

Defeating their captors is easier than he could have thought it would be. Sheppard fights well, skill and bloody-minded persistence overcoming his weakness. The Wraith is at a disadvantage, chained as he is, but the chain has its use. He encircles a guard's neck with it, choking him as he beats the metal sleeve on his arm against the bars of his cell, using the last of the strength he took from Sheppard in a surge of power to break it off.

Sheppard is fighting one of the guards, beating him with his elbow, and two are down. The Wraith, his arm free, now has an enemy in his power, and no Kolya to order him off. He can take what he needs and he does, snarling, a slave to starvation no longer.

Shots bark in the enclosed space, and bite through his back, making his body jerk. He growls in rage, half-turning to face the attack, but the shots are an annoyance more than a threat while he feeds.

It's Sheppard who comes to his defense, throwing a knife from somewhere hard and straight into the chest of the one remaining guard, and the Wraith is free to finish his feeding.

It is a triumph, and the vengeance is sweet.

Then the fight is over. Sheppard, going over the collapsed form of an unconscious guard, retrieves the keys, and throws them to the Wraith. He's letting him free himself of the chains that were their guards' protection against him. He blinks, unwilling to show his surprise.

He had not truly expected Sheppard to trust him.

Trust him, however, he does, at least enough to let him lead the way from the complex, to give him a pistol and his freedom without treating him like his own prisoner. Sheppard had, it seems, meant his pretty words about the importance of working together.

It isn't until they reach the surface that those sentiments are tested. One of the guards on the way out shot him again, and he didn't have time to feed. He will heal, but he is weak. One life would have been enough without the new wounds, but his new strength is fading already.

He needs to feed.

"Well, don't look at me."

It sounds like a quip, the sort of dark joke Sheppard has been making this whole time, but this time, it's backed up by a rifle pointed at the Wraith as he pulls himself to his feet.

For a moment, he thinks that now Sheppard's betrayal has come, that he'd misjudged, trusted too far and put too much faith in a mere human. He raises the pistol Sheppard gave him, but neither of them shoots.

"We make it to the Stargate," Sheppard says, "we both go our separate ways. Until then, we're gonna need each other. Deal?"

It is a good deal, if it can be believed. But now would be too late to start doubting Sheppard's honor. It was Sheppard's apparent integrity that drew him into accepting the man's overtures to begin with, so he will have to rely on it. For now. 

But he will not put away his weapon. And he will be ready, if he is attacked, to take what he needs.

It's dark outside, and the air is cool and fresh. For years, all he has known has been the musty underground air of the complex, stale from too little circulation. Out here, there are trees, there is breeze, there is the sight of the stars, stars that were once his life and his home.

Stars he has not seen since before he was captured.

They stagger through the forest, out away from the bunker. They need to get to the Stargate, as Sheppard calls it, but there is no way to know where to find it. The Wraith thinks they are going in the right direction, but what landmarks are there? The trees have changed since he came to this place, and though he tries to recall the details, they are hard to recall after so long.

Sheppard, eventually, grows suspicious. He seems to have regained some of his strength, or at least to have more of it remaining than the Wraith. The feedings earlier in the day are fading, and the forest path is rough, making the Wraith stumble and fall.

There is little hope for him. Not without killing Sheppard, and though that might save his life, it would be at the cost of betrayal and dishonor. 

That is not the way.

"You should go on without me," he says. There is little point in him holding Sheppard back. That is all he will do, without the sustenance that would allow him to heal. And that would simply kill both of them. Better for one to escape, for Sheppard to return to Doctor Weir and the owners of those other voices that had called out in concern for him.

Sheppard was the engineer of their escape, and Sheppard should see its results.

Now, though, Sheppard appears determined not to leave behind his companion. He insists on the two of them staying together, relying on each other. There is some tactical sense in his suggestion that they need to catch the guards in crossfire to make the best of their small numbers, but they have only a faint hope of success.

It has always been only a faint hope, but Sheppard does not seem to recognize it.

Not until he realizes that the Wraith does not know where the Stargate is.

"Way to go, John!" he shouts to himself in disgust. "Listen to a Wraith!"

"It was not my intention to deceive you, Sheppard."

In the end, he simply wanted to believe in Sheppard's dream. He wanted to escape. He cared less about the Stargate than about getting out of that prison. Even if that meant the end.

He would rather die under this vast, dark sky than moulder in that prison.

Sheppard has one of the guards' radios, and it comes to life, informing them that reinforcements have arrived at the Stargate.

 _Kill the Wraith on sight, but I want Sheppard alive,_ a familiar voice replies.

That brings Sheppard back from his rage.

"Well," he says, his voice calm again, with a forced levity that he's so good at, "we learned two things. One, he likes me better than you, two, we probably would've never made it to the Stargate anyway."

The Wraith had laughed at Sheppard's first fact, but the second is the end of their hope, and he sinks to sit on the ground. Now there are more of their captors. Now there is nothing left for them but to die out here.

Sheppard, though, doesn't see that. He still believes that his people will come for him. They don't leave each other behind, apparently, and he says it with a familiarity that makes it sound like some sort of mantra. 

"You still believe that."

Sheppard approaches, and he crouches down, bringing himself to the same level as the Wraith.

"Kolya doesn't know where we are. He's wasting manpower that could be used searching for us guarding the Gate. The odds of my people finding us are going up and up."

The Wraith studies him. _Colonel_ , his people had called him. It has the sound of a title, and it may have been one the Wraith had heard some time in the years before his captivity. Sheppard has the manner of a fighter, but he speaks like a leader, and now, he discusses their situation with an ease that speaks of experience in military planning.

It is the spirit of a speech the Wraith could have given himself, once, when he still had Hives to command. Human and Wraith may be different creatures with different values, but a leader for either race requires the strength of character to carry their followers with them.

Some Wraith lead by fear, but he has always chosen to lead by more subtle means, and to fight intelligently, rather than with force alone.

That is not unique to the Wraith.

"You are more like Wraith than you know."

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that," Sheppard says, his expression wary, but without either fear or disgust this time.

"There is much about Wraith that you do not know, Sheppard."

Wraith have honor. Wraith value loyalty to their Hive and their fellows. Wraith have strength. Sheppard still has that belief that there is nothing worthy in a Wraith, but he is wrong.

For now, though, there is little chance to educate, and little, perhaps, that Sheppard would wish to learn. And the Wraith's strength is failing. He falls to his back, staring at the sky, that sky that has been lost to him for so long. There are three big moons hanging above them, half-circles of color lending the light that has let them get this far.

He can go no further. Not without rest. More, not without feeding. Sheppard is there, but honor forbids him to turn on the man who has given him not only this escape, but hope, as futile as it has proven to be in the end.

The radio buzzes back to life, reporting on the search around the Stargate. 

"They must think we knew where we were going," Sheppard says, and resigned though he is to his fate, the Wraith laughs.

It is good to be here, even if it will be his death. Sheppard was right. This freedom is worth its price.

Sheppard appears reluctant to accept it, and the Wraith is surprised to find that there is such a thing as gratitude left within him for the man's stubbornness.

"Buck up. We got a deal, remember? We _both_ go home alive," he insists.

"And if we were to meet again in the future? What then?" It is a pointless question, perhaps, but he wonders about the extent of Sheppard's strange loyalty to his unlikely ally.

Sheppard gives him an appraising look.

"All bets are off."

The answer is pleasing, and he laughs. Even if Sheppard's belief and hope mean nothing in the end, there is something liberating in discussing the future that may not come. 

He can almost bring himself to follow Sheppard into believing this will go well.

"Then let us hope we do not meet again."

He may have respected the thought of an adversary like Sheppard in the past, but he would not wish to be pitted against him in the future, if there is one. 

It would be, however, a most interesting experience, and that thought brings another smile as he settles back to sleep.

****

The hard ground of the clearing they'd chosen for their rest is not the most comfortable of beds, but it is still the deepest he has slept in many years. Partly, that is his wound, but partly, it is the fresh air, the sounds of the night around them, knowing that above him, among those stars, the Wraith and his Hives are are out there. He can hear their voices, distant, in his mind, and it is as though he has regained a sense that had been lost.

He is awakened, startled into sudden alertness, by the sound of alarmed birds. Their pursuers are not quiet, and their progress is startling the forest around them. He sits up, listening, and hears the cracking of sticks, the rustling of undergrowth as boots tramp through it, and he knows they have little time.

Sheppard is sleeping, sitting up against a tree, and their enemies are too numerous for them to face as one weak man and one Wraith that is on the edge of death.

There is only one way they will survive this, and it must be done. He must feed. Not to take Sheppard's life, but to borrow it.

Sheppard's eyes open as he approaches and crouches by the man's side. He has no time to argue, no time to realize what is about to happen.

He would not understand. 

"They're coming."

He takes all he can of the man's life, but he does not drain him. He will not kill Sheppard. And this may appear a betrayal, but it is the only way they can win against so many armed men.

Now, he can fight. Strength surges through him, and he flexes his hands. At last, he shall feed, and feed _well_.

He leaves Sheppard laid out to draw their attention, and he scales one of the trees, the best ambush he can lay with the few moments they have. 

As their enemies approach, he attacks, Sheppard's life force giving him the power to hit them, to throw them, to take the shots they fire and continue, not crippled as before, just enraged.

Because now, he can feed, and he feels no remorse for doing so. First two, then two more, then the final two. Finally, he looks up into the sky, snarling with satisfaction, for finally, his starvation is sated. For the first time in years, he is strong, not only strong, but overflowing with vitality. He can heal, he can fight, he could run, if he wanted to.

He has life to spare, but run, he does not. He has a debt to repay. 

His steps are quiet as he returns to Sheppard's side, standing over him. He is broken, aged so that, to the Wraith's eyes, he is not recognizable as the defiant, energetic man who had been imprisoned beside him, pacing in frustration and striking out at the cell.

The eyes are the same, but their expression is spiteful now.

The Wraith crouches beside him.

"Finish it," he spits.

"As I told you, John Sheppard," the Wraith replies, "there are many things about Wraith that you do not know."

He reaches out his hand, pressing it to Sheppard's chest, and he does what no Wraith would do to any but their kin or their most dedicated followers. He returns the life force he took, not only this morning, but the previous day, watching the wrinkles fade, the hairline spread, the body fill back out until he is once again the young, lively man he had been when he was captured.

The Gift of Life. The great secret of the Wraith, shared with a man who views the Wraith as his enemy. 

John Sheppard has earned it.

He's grabbed from behind, spun and thrown to one side, and he falls, scrambling to get to his feet. 

"Wait!" 

These people did not signal their approach like Kolya's men. They were silent, and now he is surrounded by people he has never seen before, dressed unlike Kolya's men, and all of them armed. The one who'd grabbed him is a huge man, dressed in brown leather, an energy weapon pointed at him.

"Leave him!"

Sheppard has sprung to his feet.

"That's an _order_!"

"I don't understand!" one of them protests. "We all saw what he did to you."

"He just undid it," Sheppard says, stepping slowly towards the Wraith. He's staring, like he can't believe what he's looking at, and in another moment, with fewer weapons trained on him, the Wraith might have found a sort of satisfaction in being right that there was much that Sheppard did not know.

But now his friends know, too, for these must be the people he's been insisting all along will be there to save him. He shouts orders to them, telling them to lower their weapons, and they don't, at first, but neither do they shoot.

He must be their commander, just as the Wraith had thought.

"How is this possible?" a woman asks, aghast.

"Don't ask me!"

It ought to have been taken as a gift, but they are looking at him as though he had betrayed them. That is their lack of understanding of the Wraith.

It was a debt of honor. It has now been paid.

"The gift of life is reserved only for our most devout worshippers ... and our brothers."

There is a stunned moment, as all of them stare at him.

"Well, I guess there's a lot about the Wraith we don't know," Sheppard admits with a little nod of concession.

"Sheppard gave me back my life. I merely repaid the debt."

None of them seem to have an answer to that.

Still, he does not truly expect to get out of this. Sheppard, perhaps, he could deal with. His friends, however, have no deal with him. Sheppard is more concerned with Kolya, at first, than with what to do with his former ally, but the leather-clad man reminds him. 

"We had a deal, right?"

"I did not truly expect you to honour it." That he has done so this far has been unexpected.

Sheppard glances at the ground, frowning, and licks his lips, but his body is poised for action, and the Wraith is unsurprised when it happens.

Some hatreds cannot be overcome. He snatches a gun, and there's no time to react before he shoots.

****

When Sheppard awoke after being fed on, he'd said he could have sworn he would wake up dead.The Wraith could have said the same, for he expected that energy bolt to be his end.

It wasn't. He wakes, flat on his back, an unfamiliar smell in the air, and the voices of his kin in his mind. He starts, sitting up, hand going to his chest where the bolt had hit him.

There is no wound, just the memory of the light striking, and of a flash of pain that is now gone.

He looks up. There is Sheppard, a few paces away, and he aims a rifle as their eyes meet.

"Ah. Sheppard." The gun is not raised very high; it seems that Sheppard still has a degree of trust. Their amnesty still stands. "I thought you --"

"-- There's a lot you don't know about humans," Sheppard says, voice sardonic.

That, it seems, is true. He did not expect even a human like Sheppard to honor a deal like this.

"Ah. I see." He looks around him, up into the stars, and reaches out his mind. There are Wraith all around. Sheppard has not only released him, he has brought him near to his own kind.

A personal risk.

"Next time we meet?"

Sheppard gives a faint nod.

"All bets are off."

That is fair. Fairer than either of them could have expected of the other when first they met. 

A ship whines overhead, and he turns, tracking its path with his eyes, calling out to its pilot in his mind. He must return to his Hives and try to reclaim his standing. And his life.

When he looks back, Sheppard has disappeared.

But this will not be the end. John Sheppard will be a name for him to remember, because John Sheppard is a man of the sort who will not fade into the background. Such men lead planets, forge alliances. Such men are a danger.

But not for today.

For today, such a man has brought him life.


End file.
